


Cleaning House

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Domestic Violence, Gen, Pre-Conclave, Pre-Dragon Age: Inquisition, Tal-Vashoth Culture and Customs, Vashoth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22313701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Three years ago, Adaar left behind her family to pursue work as a mercenary. Now, she returns to settle unfinished business.
Kudos: 3





	Cleaning House

**Author's Note:**

> Bit of backstory for my most recent Inquisitor Adaar. Technically Kiama is also an Inquisitor Adaar, but for the purposes of this 'verse, he's just another vasthoth merc. This takes place roughly 15 years before the Conclave, when Irene becomes the Herald.
> 
> Ages:  
> Irene Adaar: 20  
> Kiama: 18  
> Ishara: 16  
> Imogen: 14  
> Yenna: 11

“Ma says he wasn’t like this before.” The soft clopping of horse hooves on the hard-packed earth provided background noise to Adaar’s words. The occasional chirping and squealing of wildlife added ambient character to the scene: two vasthoth, swaying on their sturdy mounts, Adaar armed to the teeth, her companion with little more than a simple staff. This discrepancy in weaponry only served to make them equally threatening, despite their youth. Adaar, a fresh-faced twenty, and the other, not even that, but she doubted any of Thedas’ other races would be able to look at them and guess they were barely more than children. “After they left Par Vollen, he just…started losing it. Started drinking.” Her mouth twisted down, shoulders hunching, curling in on herself over the wound of speaking about family.

“It’s not unusual,” murmured the other one. “Some of them are…the sudden freedom after life under the Qun must be…difficult.”

“Wasn’t always this bad, either,” Adaar went on. “I don’t think he hit her until I was…ten, maybe? But he was always mean, as long as I can remember. To her, to us, to everyone. I think he regretted leaving. I think he tried a few times to get her to go back. I don’t know what happens to tal-vashoth who go back to the Qun.” A shudder rippled through each of them, and the boy tightened his hands on the reins. Qamek, re-education, Ben-Hassrath…if they did not _know_ what happened to tal-vashoth who returned to the Qun, they had ideas. “But you know, every time they had another one of us, it was just…another reason not to go back.”

The sky above had been scrubbed clean of clouds by rain the night before, now shining out a fresh, clear blue, and the sun was pleasantly warm against their horns, not too hot. Spring was rolling across the land; it seemed a good time to do this. Rebirth, a new start, cleaning house—and Adaar was straining at the bit to have it done. Every step closer made her urgency more potent; talking was helping her keep herself under control.

“What about you?” She turned to the boy. Broad shoulders and gruff expressions belied the softness of his voice. Kiama did not make for a good merc, she thought, but there were not many other jobs available for vashoth—particularly an apostate. He had never said so—he would never damage his carefully crafted, paper-thin image of blasé toughness by admitting it—but Adaar thought he would have been far more suited to being a healer. He had the tenderness in his hands for it. “Your parents, were they ever…?”

“Oh, no.” Kiama answered too quickly to serve the mysterious façade he tried to build over his personal history. “I mean, it wasn’t…they didn’t go crazy. Like you hear about.” He glanced over at Adaar and the knowing, sisterly expression on his face chagrined him into sharing more. “All I remember is the first time my magic manifested, and how Mother cried. She knew if they hadn’t left, what would have happened to me.” His colossal shoulders moved up and down. “I don’t think they were ever sorry for leaving.”

“Huh.” Adaar gave a grunting, sighing sound, and slouched in her saddle. “Guess some are just better off than others. Or else Father was always an ass and it was just the Qun keeping him in check.”

“Could be.” Kiama studied the pinched furrows of Adaar’s face, unease twisting a knot up in his stomach. Confrontation of their mercenary targets was one thing, but personal confrontation—well, he would leave the talking to Adaar. He was only there to keep an eye on things. It had seemed wrong, to let her go alone.

Adaar didn’t talk about leaving. Even to Kiama, her story of leaving home remained mostly locked up. He had thought she might, now that she was going back, but she’d said nothing of it throughout their trip.

The home wasn’t large—vasthoth homes rarely were. One didn’t leave the Qun with the idea of making a fortune. They made it to the small settlement before evening, and although it was far from where Kiama had grown up, it felt bizarrely familiar, like walking down a street where everything was the same, but all the shop signs were different. All around, the signs of vashoth trying to accustom themselves to life outside Par Vollen, dragging with them vestiges of Qunari culture, cobbled in with mismatched bits of Orlesian society and history, and blanketed over with something uniquely vashoth. Vashoth dressed in Orlesian wear, but still sporting the horn decorations of the Qunari. Vashoth children who played at being the triumvirate, punishing saarebas and banishing vashoth—or were toppled by noble vashoth rebels, sometimes with the aid of the empress and her royal guard. Small shrines to vague and undefined spirits, or gods, or whatever higher powers the penitent wanted to believe in. Once, he saw the Andrastian sunburst painted on a doorpost.

Adaar drew her horse to a stop outside a nondescript wooden cottage. The porch sagged as if it could not bear up under the weight of the vashoth’s struggles, and bowed the railing, so the girl sitting there was slanted at an angle. When Adaar’s feet hit the ground, stirring up puffs of dust, the girl raised her head and her ears flicked.

“Irene!” she cried, casting aside the needlework she had been laboring over. Pushing herself off the crooked railing, she rushed to her older sister, braids swinging out to the sides. “What are you doing here? We thought you were never coming back!”

Adaar’s ears twitched and she cast her eyes aside briefly.

“Yeah…sorry. I’m here now. Where’s Ma?”

“Inside,” Imogene replied, tugging at one of her braids. “Boy, she’ll be glad to see you.”

“I don’t know about that,” Adaar muttered. She turned to Kiama, uncomfortable astride his horse before the scene. “Wait out here. Don’t come in unless I signal.”

“What’s the signal?” he asked, gripping the reins.

“You’ll know.” That seemed wildly untrue, but Adaar was already leading her sister inside, so he dismounted and took up sentry by the step. It was a role he was accustomed to playing, and he most often preferred it to being in the thick of things (just something else to keep to himself).

The house, haphazardly nailed together by people who were never trained to build homes, looked just as it had when Adaar left, only somehow, it was managing to put in even less effort to staying upright and serving its purposes. She nearly knocked her horns on the doorframe on her way in, and understood a bit better her father’s constant cursing when he entered too quickly and bounced his horns off the frame.

“Irene?” It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the dimmer light inside, but Ishara saw her as soon as she came in. The girl was at the butter churn, sleeves folded halfway past her elbow, a faint sheen of sweat at her silvery throat. “What on Earth are you doing here?” Her pretty mouth turned down and the glare she gave reminded Adaar _far_ too much of herself, if she had ever been as lovely as her sister.

“Where’s Ma and Dad?”

“Oh, no. You can’t come in here and start raising hell!” Ishara straightened up, releasing the butter churn with one hand as if she could get Adaar out of the house herself. Four fewer years and a much slenderer build put her at a distinct disadvantage, and Adaar was not interested in squabbling with her sisters. They could swear her out of the house later, if they wanted.

“What’s going on in here?” Adaar’s heart wrenched at the sound of her mother’s voice, and her hardened expression dropped when she turned and saw her mother’s sleep-shadowed eyes. A face so familiar it was stamped on her heart: _Mama!_ “Irene.” She saw her mother’s sharp intake of breath, and the way she stiffened, but did not reach out for support.

“Hey, Ma.” The mercenary shuffled her feet, and squeezed in her shoulders, looking down at the carefully swept floorboards. “Sorry I been gone so long.”

“So you finally came back, huh?” Behind Mama, Father. Just as familiar, just as ingrained on Adaar’s mind, but the softness ebbed from her face at his arrival. “Seen how it is? Trying to get work around here? Be easier to get a job pulling a plow than doing something real.”

“I’ve got work.” Adaar’s jaw went rigid and her hand tightened into a fist around the canvas bag she was holding.

“Good, then you can contribute something. Things are too tight around here for loafers. If you plan on staying, you need to pull your weight.” Adaar threw the bag at him, and reflexively, he caught it.

“Get your stuff,” she said.

“What?”

“Get your stuff,” she repeated. “Put it in the bag. And get out.” She could see the realization processing on her father’s face—he struggled to comprehend the magnitude of her insubordination, but it was coming. “I’ve got a job. So we don’t need you around here no more.”

“You think you’re going to kick me out of my own house?” He barked out a laugh and threw her bag to the floor. “Got some fucking balls for a woman. You’re either here to put that salary you’re supposedly getting towards the family funds, or you can turn right back around and go back to wherever you came from.”

“I think you’d better move quick,” Adaar said, folding her arms, feet spread in a solid stance. Father hadn’t ever gone after her the way he had Mama—popped her across the face a few times, or given her a good smack on the behind—but she was ready now. She could take it. “You’ll want to find a place to stay before nightfall.”

“You think you’re real funny, huh?” Father scoffed and shook his head, and walked right by her into the kitchen. “Go sit down, daughter. You’ve gotten so full of yourself you can barely move.” Ishara had gone back to churning, head down, her pale blue eyes flicking between the three adults.

Adaar grabbed his elbow.

“I mean it, Dad,” she said. He shook her off.

“Or what?” he asked. “You’re big in your britches now that you’ve got some blades.” He looked to knives on her person, unaware of the longbow strapped to her horse outside. “Going to kill me, is that it, Irene? No? I didn’t think so. So sit your ass down and take a few deep breaths, and then help your sister with the butter.” Adaar glanced over at Mama, whose look was…reproving? Angry? Resigned? She couldn’t say. Mama was thinking _something_. Adaar stalked over and picked up the canvas bag. Brushing by Ishara and the butter churn, she shoved it back into Father’s hands.

“Get your shit,” she said, leaning into his face, close enough to see the tiny myriad of crow’s feet around his eyes. “Now.”

“Sit the fuck down,” he replied, and Ishara cringed, no doubt debating whether it was better to stay the course and finish her chore, or duck out of the area while she could.

“Get out of the house!” Adaar shouted, shoving the bag against his chest. Father thrust her away from him, and Adaar pushed back twice as hard, throwing him into the table. Their eyes burned and Mama moved forward to separate them, saying Father’s name, but Adaar could hear the siren going off in his head, and she knew it was too late.

Good.

He took a swing, no doubt meaning to shut her up with a quick hit, and she dodged left, underneath his arm, with practiced ease. Three years serving a mercenary company had taught her things she never learned brawling out behind the schoolhouse. Mama was yelling and Ishara had taken her chance to flee, but Adaar barely heard them over the roaring in her ears. Twenty years she’d been waiting for this—no one was stopping her now. Her hand was like an adder; she had already withdrawn her fist by the time Father realized she’d struck him. The shock on his face alone was worth it. As a child, she had struck out occasionally, as children may, but her babyish flailing and tiny fists had done little but make him laugh at best, or give her a swat and send her to some brutally menial chore at worst. She hadn’t tried it since she was young enough to have it laughed off.

That was the problem, which Father had not realized yet. She was not a little girl anymore, and he was not a man at his peak. While he had grown old and slow from age and drink, she had grown lean and fit from combat, and the table was about to flip right underneath him.

This time the siren was blaring full force, she could tell. He lunged with his next strike and Adaar dodged again. The momentum carried him forward and she caught one of his horns, pulling him around to get a grip on both. At the same time she drove his head down, she jerked her knee up, slamming his face down into it. Once, then again, and again, and again, and again, and—. Father’s arms were like windmills as he tried to get a grip on anything that would help him pull away from her.

“Get out! Get out!” A babble of words and curses were seething through her clenched teeth; she did not hear and was not aware of _what_ she was saying, only that she was making some kind of noise as she pulverized her father’s face.

“Irene!” This time, she heard her mother’s shouting. “Stop!” Mama grabbed onto her and pulled on her so she almost stumbled away.

“Get out of our fucking house,” Adaar snarled, releasing Father and sending him staggering backwards. His face was a mess of blood, nose probably broken, lip split. All the pent-up desire to do it did not make it easier to look at. “Get your fucking shit, and get out.” She threw the bag at him again. “Or I’ll kill you.”

Ishara was cowering from a distance safe enough to be out of range, but still within eyeshot, unwilling to not be a witness to the moment. Mama was still, not intervening again, but not taking Father’s side either.

“No, you won’t,” Father said, wiping at the mangled mess of his face.

“You want to find out?” Adaar stepped into his space, nearly of a height with him. “No? I didn’t think so. Take your miserable self somewhere else. Go back to Par Vollen if you want it so bad.” She stood guard while Father collected his things. “Don’t you even think about taking that box of Ma’s!” she shouted into the bedroom. “That coin is hers!” Hadn’t stopped him from raiding it for drink more times than even Adaar knew, but if he got his dirty fingers on it now, she’d break every one of them.

“Disrespectful shit,” he hissed as she followed him out of the house. Kiama immediately straightened up, looking to Adaar for a signal. “Oh, and you brought back-up? I knew you were a coward.”

“Kiama’s a friend,” Adaar said.

“You’re really going to do this to your family?” Father stopped at the edge of the property to look at her. “You going to come in here and kick me out and then what for your Mama and your sisters? Are you ready for them to go without because of your pride?”

“I’ve got a job,” Adaar repeated. “And we’ll figure it out better alone than we ever did with you.” The tightness in her throat was unexpected and abruptly, she wished she had told Kiama to wait further away. “You think this is what I wanted? _Vashedan_! You couldn’t have just…been a decent fucking person?”

Fuck. She’d been gone three years and held her own among mercenaries and made a grown-up adult decision to come back here and kick her shithead father out and somehow he still turned her into a five year old girl wanting her father to be more than he was willing to be.

“You’re going to let this happen?” Finally he turned his attention on Mama, who was on the porch with all three of the girls (Yenna had crept out of the woodwork somewhere along the way). “She’s been gone three years and you’re going to let her start making decisions for you?”

“She’s right,” Mama said. “You need to go. You’ve known that for a long time.”

The rejection of his wife seemed final, and Father took his leave with no more protests besides what he muttered under his breath on his way down the lane. Where he would go, Adaar was not certain, and that did give her pause. Her one fear was that he would come back—try to get revenge, or force his way back into their lives. Still, she preferred this unsettling uncertainty to the reality of his presence.

“Ma, I—”

“You had better have a job.” Mama’s burning eyes bowled her over and she blinked, wide-eyed.

“I do!”

“Because your father is right—it’s next to impossible to get a job out here and without him around to help the house, we’re going to need the money. Your sisters need to eat.”

“I have a job,” Adaar insisted, throwing her hands up. “I work with Kiama!” She quickly turned Mama’s attention to the other vashoth, who had just a few years on Ishara.

“And what job is that? Running a gang of runaway teenagers?”

“I’ve got the only job you can get as a vashoth around here,” Adaar said, folding her arms across her ribs. “We work with mercenaries.” Mama’s eyes narrowed, making the ring in her left eyebrow tremble. “I won’t bring that here though,” Adaar said quickly, uncrossing her arms. “I only came by for Dad. I can send you money though, from my jobs. At least until you all find something better.”

“I don’t know where you think that’ll happen,” Mama said. Standing in the middle of the dusty little vashoth settlement, she made a point. Their enclaves were too small to be self-sustaining beyond bare necessities, and each of them had only trained in something very specific in Par Vollen. Mama had been a steel smith, specializing in weapons. She knew nothing about farming or raising animals or mending clothes, and she was not the only steel smith in this area, or even the first, nor did people have much need of weapons so far out from other towns, so she did not get much work that way. She and Father had taught themselves a great deal, learned from other vashoth—trading skills between themselves was one of the things vashoth did best, and much of their economy was worked in traded favors—but there were limits. And very few humans, elves, or dwarves wanted vashoth around—not only because of what the Qunari had done, but because of the terrible stories stuffed into their ears about tal-vashoth madness.

“We’ll make it work,” Adaar said.

“ _We’ll_ make it work,” Mama said. “I hope you know what you’ve done.” She pinched her furrowed brow, gritting her teeth. “I know you think I just rolled over, but choices have to be made. If I can’t find decent work, we’re going to be worse off.”

“Worse off! I just got rid of that asshole for you!”

“For me!” Mama’s ears moved back and her nostrils flared. “You came in here and did what _you_ wanted and never asked me or the girls what we need! I didn’t ask for you to come play the conquering hero, Irene! But now that you’ve gone and made this decision for us, we’ll have to deal with it.” She turned on her heel, moving Yenna out of the way as she strode back into the house.

“You could have stopped me!” Adaar called after her. Then, weakly, “I was trying to help.” Her wide, helpless eyes were turned on Kiama, who immediately threw his hands up.

“You were thinking about yourself, like always,” Ishara said, her delicate brow squeezing against her eyes. “Like you did when you ran off. Maybe you ought’ve asked how we’ve been in three years, instead of coming in and turning everything on it’s head!” She took, took her leave, most likely to finish the butter.

Adaar stared at the house, and the two remaining girls watching her from the front path. “Shit.”

“Is Father coming back?” Yenna asked hesitantly, tugging at the hem of her vest.

“He better not,” Adaar replied. “I’ll knock the stuffing out of him.” She tested a smile, and when the girls responded, she opened her arms to hug them both. “You guys want to come hunting with me and Kiama?”

At least when she returned, she was able to slap a brace of rabbits on the table. Ishara was there, skinning potatoes in the most resentful fashion Irene had seen since _she’d_ last been tasked with skinning potatoes by Mama.

“Where’s Ma?”

“Can’t you leave her alone?” Ishara asked. “You’ve done enough.”

“I helped you! Do you really think you were better off with him around?”

“That’s not the point!” Ishara yanked so violently on the potato peeler she nearly took off her own knuckle. “You humiliated her, Irene. You did in ten minutes what she couldn’t do in twenty years: kick Father out of the house. And you did it without asking, without giving her a choice. How’s she supposed to take care of Imogene and Yenna when you do things like that?”

Adaar stared blankly.

“I…hadn’t thought of it like that.”

“No, because you didn’t think past what made _you_ feel good, which was to come riding back in here after three years without so much as a _word_ and upend everything.”

“I tried to help,” Adaar said softly, resting her fingers on the tabletop. Even after so many years, it had not been worn smooth; she could still feel the divots and bumps in the wood. When Mama and Father first settled there, Mama all swollen with Adaar inside, having a perfectly flat dining table had probably not been a priority—nor had it been any year since.

“And now we all have more work because Father isn’t around to do it. You and your friend should go.”

“You don’t get to make that choice.” Adaar couldn’t help but bristle with her sister’s demands.

“Apparently we’re all making decisions above our station today,” Ishara replied, looking up at Adaar with a searing gaze. Abandoning the effort to win Ishara back over, Adaar instead went out back, where Mama was tending the chickens.

“Ma? Kiama and I brought you some rabbits,” she said.

“Thank you.” Mama didn’t look over. Adaar shuffled her feet.

“Ma, I…I’m sorry. If I…made things worse. I was just trying to help. I thought—”

“I know.” Mama sighed, and rested the basket of feed against her hip. “I know you wanted to help. And your father…well, whatever was good in him dried up a long time ago.” Her fingers tightened against the basket. “But you need to think before you act. You break more than you fix when you run into things like a bull charging a china cabinet. And I don’t think you should stay here.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. I don’t mean to bring work here,” Adaar said. “I thought…we’d just stay a few days, make sure Father doesn’t plan to come back. Then we’ll get along. I can send you the money whenever we’re in town.”

“That’ll help,” Mama said. She threw a few last handfuls of feed out to the chickens and came out of the enclosure. It hit Adaar again, the weariness in Mama’s shoulders, in the lines under her eyes and the furrows around her mouth.

“I thought I was helping,” Adaar told her softly as Mama came up to the door.

“I know, Irene.” Mama laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and drew in a long breath. “I know. And you’re right—I could have stopped you. But I didn’t.” Her fingers dug gently into Adaar’s shoulder, as if she could hold her daughter there, just for a moment. “It is good to see you again. I didn’t think we would.”

“Sorry.” Adaar hung her head.

“Enough apologies. Let’s have a look at those rabbits. They’ll go well with the potatoes Ishara’s peeling.” Adaar’s tight chest loosened a little, and she followed Ma inside. “Where’d your friend get to?” Mama asked after she had inspected the rabbits. Realizing she’d abandoned poor Kiama to strangers, Adaar threw open a front window to yell for him, and saw him out in front of the house with Imogene and Yenna braiding ropes of flowers around his horns.

“Don’t you look pretty!” she shouted with a laugh. Kiama startled and flushed dark gray, instinctively shaking his head to remove the decorations.

“No!” Imogene and Yenna yelped, fluttering their hands over their creation. “You’re spoiling it!” Adaar grinned.

“Good work ladies. He’ll look mighty fine for dinner.”

On the day she left, Adaar gave her three sisters a gift: A solid knife, one each.

“You’ll need to learn to use these,” she said. “We hope you never have to, but if you do, you’ll be glad you know. Taarique can help you; he was a sten back in Par Vollen. Even you, Yenna,” she added, looking to their youngest sister. “Be careful, but practice. You’ll be good in no time!” She smiled, watching the girls unsheathe and examine the knives. Stepping aside to Mama, she offered a fourth.

“I can take care of myself, Irene,” Mama said, but she took it. “We’re not helpless here. We have the rest of the community too. Just because they don’t get involved in our personal problems doesn’t mean they wouldn’t help us if we were in trouble.”

“I know. But it can’t hurt, right?” Mama was turning her knife over, examining the blade and the metal.

“It’s well-made,” she announced, sheathing it and hooking it onto her belt. “Thank you.”

“Thanks Irene,” Imogene and Yenna chimed. Ishara didn’t look at her, just turned the knife over in her hands, watching the slow movement. Adaar gave each of them a forehead touch to say goodbye, even Ishara, who, just for a second, tried to lean away from her before accepting the gesture.

“You’ll take good care of them,” she said to Ishara.

“Of course I will, they’re my family,” she replied. “I won’t abandon them.” Adaar gave a small sigh and nodded.

“Watch out for yourselves,” she said. “I’ll write when I can, and send more money as soon as I have it.” The coin pouch she had delivered already was tucked safely into Mama’s box. The family waved goodbye as Kiama followed Adaar out to where the horses were waiting. “Maybe I’ll send you a letter from Val Royeaux!” she said as she mounted up.

“Oh, please do!” Imogene cried. “And a present, too!”

“Yes, send us a present!” Yenna agreed.

“You don’t need a present,” Ishara told them.

“I’ll see what I can do.” Adaar gave them a mock salute, and turned her horse towards the settlement entrance. “Make sure you all listen to Ma! Otherwise I’ll come back to give you hell! Kiama too!” The mentioned ducked his head and rubbed at one of his horns.

They rode out before ten.

“That went…uh…”

“Could’ve been better,” Adaar grunted. “But at least he’s gone. Now I know if I send them stipends, it won’t go straight to Vera’s moonshine.” Silence fell over them. Adaar waved as they passed by a familiar neighbor. They exited the settlement. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course. Glad you didn’t need me.”

“Nah, it was good to have you.”

“I wasn’t sure if it would be…intruding.”

“Nah.” The sounds of the settlement began to fade as they followed the rutted dirt path back towards Val Chevin. “Say, you think if we take that Martin job, the boss will give us a raise?”

Kiama couldn’t stop a laugh from bursting out.

“That’s a nice joke, Adaar.”

**Author's Note:**

> Would love to explore more the uniquness of tal-vashoth/vashoth culture and how it differs from Qunari culture. 
> 
> I refuse to believe the Qunari and vashoth can't move their ears. You know they get twitchy, like horses.
> 
> [On tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/190337955765/fandom-dragon-age-inquisition-characters-adaar)


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